Naturally, Charlie

by S. L. Scott

  A sigh escapes when I realize it’s a funeral announcement for my great-aunt Grace. She died on Tuesday, but I wasn’t called until Thursday, which still bothers me. I read the information relevant to her funeral taking place next Wednesday at three o’clock. The thought of a family reunion, especially one of bad tidings, is unsettling.

  Dropping down onto the couch, I turn on the local news as a distraction until my stomach reminds me I forgot to eat lunch. I grab my jacket and walk to the closest subway station. Craving Chinese food, I head to the best in town which is two train stops away and worth the hassle of getting there.

  While waiting on the platform, the crowd bunches around me just as the train arrives. The doors open, and I walk on with the herd. As I make my way to the center of the car, letting everyone else claim the seats, I hear a quiet voice.

  “Excuse me.”

  I follow the voice and find a pretty, blue-eyed redhead attempting to work her way off the car without much luck. I stare into the innocence of her eyes for a second longer than what’s considered polite before I scoot out of her way and apologize for blocking her. “No, I’m sorry.”

  I hope removing myself from her path assists in creating an opening for her to exit, although all of my instincts direct me to do the opposite, to keep her here. After hesitating for a second, I continue on my mission to find a seat and let her go. There’s nowhere to sit back here, so I decide to move to another train car. I head toward the front, hoping to find a seat up there.

  I make it home with food intact and eat while flicking through the television stations. Nothing’s on, though, and I’m supposed to meet Justin in thirty. I turn the television off and get ready. A fresh shave and a change of clothes later, I grab my keys and am out the door right on time.

  Walking in just past eight, I head straight to the back where Justin always reserves a table. I’m greeted with the usual round of handshakes and hollers from the regulars.

  “Grab a glass, my friend. The pitcher’s over there.” Justin points to the corner shelf as I search through the rows of sticks on the wall, looking for Lynda. “Who’s the lucky lady tonight?” Justin asks.

  I find my favorite pool stick and chalk the tip. “Gentlemen, behold Lynda.” I laugh, holding up the cue, knowing how they eat up the dramatics. I jokingly name the sticks after ladies I’ve spent time with.

  “Now which one was Lynda again?” Bruce asks.

  “I’ve got this one.” Justin steps in to explain. “Lynda was the one in those little hot pants who strolled in one evening asking if we’d seen her friend.” He makes a sad face. “Her friend stood her up, but Chuck here lent a shoulder to cry on all night—figuratively speaking.” He looks at me and asks, “Did I do her justice?”

  I don’t like to brag about my dates, but he was a witness and loves to boast, even if it’s for me. “We went out a few times until—”

  “She went nuts over the boy,” Bruce spews out. “I remember now. Dark hair, hot body, and big boobs.”

  “Well, to be clear, she didn’t go nuts over me. She was already deemed clinically insane before we met.” I correct his take on the situation, ignoring the rest.

  I walk back over to the wall and grab any old stick, not quite feeling the same desire to use Lucky Lynda anymore. Was I seriously that much of a pig back then? Some of my old habits tagged along into my new life, but have since been kicked to the curb.

  “You can break,” Bruce announces. Justin grabs a stool to watch our game.

  After a few pitchers, Bruce takes off and Justin stands, ready to leave. “Let’s go. There’s a bar around the corner that gets some good-looking girls in there.” I follow without question. I’m tired of playing pool anyway.

  We walk in, and I search to figure out the vibe in here. It’s part professionals still partying after happy hour and part locals. I dig the relaxed atmosphere. I buy the first round and pay more for those two whiskeys than three pitchers of beer cost at the pool hall.

  Justin is already working his charms on two women. Not interested in playing the get-to-know-you-game yet, I hand him his drink and return to the bar to chill. He seems to be doing well for this early in the evening. Usually it takes a few drinks and several hours mixed with a hint of desperation for a girl to give my most obnoxious buddy this much attention.

  Bored with watching Justin, I’ve been staring into my drink now for a while. I look out and survey the crowd that’s changed in the last hour. The clubbers, the nighttime partiers have arrived.

  A red dress catches my eye, and I notice, along with half the men in the bar, the pretty owner wearing it—dark hair, dark eyes, and a bright smile. She’s quite stunning. I’ve encountered her type too many times to recall. I’ve dubbed them the “Unapproachable Approachable.” She’s wearing red to get the attention, but she’s looking, too. If a man she’s not interested in comes up to her, it’s a quick rejection. But if a man she’s eyeing comes over to talk, she welcomes him. She’s looking for a husband, but it will end up more a match made in one-night-stand heaven.

  Yeah, she’s stunning all right, but not my type.

  The girl with her, the one in black, not only catches my attention, but holds it. She’s pretty and cute at the same time—familiar. A memory flashes as I watch her talking with her friend. It can’t be. Can it? Sitting up a little straighter, I’m shocked. This is quite the coincidence. I think she’s the hot little redhead from the subway this afternoon. She’s very attractive, even more so than I thought on the train. I wonder if she lives in the area, if this is her hangout. She exited the subway not too far from here, so it could be.

  Justin comes over for a bit; the girl he’d been chatting up is now gone. “You learning from the master by watching me all night, or you gonna get out there and mingle?” He slaps his hand down on the bar and signals for two more drinks.

  “The master? Yeah, you’re the master all right,” I reply, my sarcasm taking over. “I’m good. Just enjoying the scenery from the bar.” I glance back over my shoulder and see my redhead has left.

  I spin back on the barstool and down the last two gulps of my drink just as a fresh one arrives.

  I must be boring Justin, because he’s now talking to a girl a few stools down. I overhear her say that she loves classic rock like Smash Mouth and Madonna. Some of my brain cells die an instant and agonizing death from her comments. “Classic rock,” I scoff purposely loud.

  I’m still laughing at my sardonic thought when Justin says, “So, Tiff and I are gonna take off. You cool hanging here by yourself?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I lean back, scanning the bar one more time. I see the girl in the black dress again with her friend and two guys. I smile, because she didn’t leave. From her expression, I can tell how disinterested she is in the man hovering too close to her. Her body language says everything she’s not, but he keeps talking, missing her obvious disinterest.

  Looking back at my friend, I say, “No problem. Go on. I’m cool.”

  Justin and his new potential leave, and I’m left to watch these players hit on my redhead. Would it make a difference if those jerks weren’t just trying to get laid? Stop analyzing weird crap! Looking back at my drink, I watch the ice melt, wondering why I’m even here. It’s not my scene at all. Though, these days, I’m not sure what my scene is. I think I’m ready for someone more permanent in my life, not this ongoing dating business. I’ve outgrown this scene enough to not make an effort, and I’ll stay just to finish my drink.

  I’m not an aggressive guy and know full well I won’t intrude on another man’s game. My redhead will be interested in that schmuck or she won’t. I’ll watch and see how it plays out.

  A few minutes later, without a drink in my hand, I’m debating whether I should stay or go. I decide to go, but I’ll check on the girl before I do. I negotiate with myself. If the guy is still there, I’ll leave. If he’s not, I’ll go talk to her.

  Just as I turn around, I’m chest to chest with brown eyes, long brown hair
, and a sinful red dress.

  Smiling, her hand lands on my chest. “Hi there, handsome. I hope you’re not leaving.”

  I sit back down, because when a woman like her wants you to stay, you do. The only problem is I’m more interested in her friend. Looking over her shoulder, I scan the bar to see if she left, but that’s what I assumed before, so this time I want to verify.

  “I’m Charlie.” She giggles for some reason when I introduce myself. I don’t get the joke, so I move on and ask, “Are you here alone tonight?” Straightforward, but I need to know to clear my thoughts of the pretty girl.

  She glances over her shoulder then looks me in the eyes. “Yes, it appears that way. I’m Rachel.” She’s flirting. “Are you here by yourself tonight?”

  I’m a believer in destiny, so I don’t like things forced—if I am meant to meet her, I will. Guess it’s not in the stars tonight. “I am now. The friend I came with took off.”

  We talk, and I discover she’s funny. She speaks fast, almost too fast. I hope it’s nerves and not that late-night desperation.

  She asks, “Do you live in the area?”

  “Sort of, about six blocks away. How about you?”

  “Down the street. I love the access to the park.”

  I offer her my barstool, but the one next to me becomes available and she settles there.

  “There’s a dog park around the corner from my apartment. I don’t have a dog, but I find it fascinating to sit and watch the animals interact. Dogs are interesting, that’s for sure.” I don’t even know what I’m talking about. I blame the alcohol for the gibberish.

  An odd thought strikes me as she talks about some couple out in the Hamptons selling their estate. What if the redhead was brought into my life so I can meet her friend? “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Yes, I’d love a . . .” She stops speaking for a moment, and I follow her gaze, my eyes meeting bright blue ones and a black dress—my redhead. “Oh! Here’s my friend. Charlie, this is Charlie. How funny is that?”

  I can’t stop the smile. It’s there, natural, just for her.

  She smiles at me before responding, “Very.” She’s speaking to Rachel, but looking at me.

  “You made it off the subway?” I ask, wondering if she remembers me.

  It’s later in the night, the music has been turned up, making it harder to hear and hold a conversation. We do just fine, though. She blushes when we talk about the coincidence of our names. The act of blushing is completely endearing and quite adorable on her. Most of the women in this city lost the ability to blush years ago.

  Being around her makes me sit up straighter, listen more intently. Remembering the strict etiquette courses I endured as a child, I adjust my shoulders back, fixing my posture as I stand, offering her my chair.

  She declines and the brightness in her eyes and smile remain as we tease each other about jinxes and sodas. The playful banter is refreshing, considering we’re in a bar. Our conversation is easy and comfortable, extraordinary. That is until we’re both reminded that Rachel is here when she interjects some bizarre comment about me liking dogs that makes no sense. Charlie’s expression indicates she thinks it’s odd, too.

  Not wanting to be rude, I focus on Rachel, including her in the conversation. I don’t want to make her feel awkward and can tell she’s feeling competitive with her friend. My eyes flicker to Charlie again when she uses a word she made up. I tell her she’s cute when Rachel teases her. I wonder if she doesn’t like the compliment, because she’s suddenly trying to dash out the door. She probably would’ve preferred if I told her she was pretty or clever—which she is also.

  Silent exchanges flow between them, and Charlie says good-bye before I have a chance to change her mind. I grab her hand, pretending it’s a casual handshake. It’s not. I feel a little desperate myself now.

  She backs up, trying to leave, and I hold on, not wanting to let her go, not ready for her to walk away. I pull her toward me, watching the light in her eyes sparkle as she giggles. But her hand slips free, and she turns to leave. I should respect their decision, but this feels wrong, all wrong. The wrong girl is leaving.

  “Now, about that drink,” Rachel says, leaning forward, her arm draping across my shoulder.

  We settle into light conversation. She has an enthusiasm when she talks that makes her appear animated. She’s fun to chat with—or maybe I should say listen to. That might be more apropos.

  Just after midnight, I find I’m starved and ask her if she’d like to grab a bite to eat together. She readily agrees, and we walk a block down to an all-night diner I used to frequent. Over our food, I discover she’s from New Jersey and works at an auction house. Sounds depressing, selling dead people’s stuff, but she says there’s more to it than that.

  She starts to ask questions about me, which kind of surprises me. I guess because she hadn’t all night. “So, are you native to New York?”

  I smile, and my mind shoots between all corners of my brain, searching for which answer I’m comfortable giving. “I’m from Kansas.”

  It’s not a lie. I’ve spent a lot of time, summers and holiday breaks, down there visiting my great-aunt. Her house was more like a home than Manhattan ever was with my parents. My parents were too caught up in being a part of high society to worry about me and my upbringing.

  My dad did take the time to teach me the importance of two things, or at least the most important to him: making money and meeting girls. That was the life advice I was given.

  In Manhattan, you’re a pawn in the game of society, a willing participant to their rules. The women here tend to attach themselves as soon as they find out I’m a local. That sounds the alarm which means I must come from money. Kansas throws them off, and it’s only a partial lie, at worst, since I did spend a lot of time there.

  “Kansas, wow! I wouldn’t have guessed that. A small town boy, huh?” She smiles and takes another bite, hoping I’ll lead into a story, but I just eat my food.

  She asks a few more questions, expected ones, nothing of interest. Not saying she’s shallow, but she’s running through her list, checking off her requirements one by one. It’s fine. I can admit we’re in the age group that is seeking a life partner, so it doesn’t bother me. These questions are a great way to get to know the girl, too, to find out what’s important to her, what she values.

  I answer her inquiries as honestly as I can and throw them back to learn more about her. After we finish our meal, we walk outside, and although I should walk her or cab it with her home, I decide to end the night. “Can I get a taxi for you?”

  Her smile is friendly. “Oh, that’s right. You live close by. I’ll just grab a cab myself.”

  I step forward, spotting a taxi in the distance heading this way with its light on. I raise my arm, and it pulls up to the curb. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Rachel.” And it was. There weren’t fireworks, just a few minor sparks.

  “I enjoyed this very much.” She smiles. “I was wondering if you’d like to go out for dinner this week. Maybe Tuesday?”

  Fate chose Rachel, I remind myself. “I’d like that, but I can’t Tuesday.” My agent texted and made me promise to focus on my goals. I don’t like lying and told him I would start this week. Monday, I can let slide, but Tuesday will make me feel guilty. “I’m free on Monday.”

  “Oh. Um, well, I’ll make Monday work. If I can’t, I’ll call you.”

  “All right.” We exchange numbers.

  She shakes my hand and leans in, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll call you. Thank you for dinner. I had a great time.” She gets in the cab, and it screeches as it takes off down the dark street, with no regard for the late hour.

  I shove my hands in my jacket and walk home, thinking about my aunt’s passing. My chest tightens at the loss, so I switch my thoughts to tonight, the guys at the pool hall and Rachel from the club. I don’t dwell and hurry home. By the time I get to my apartment, it’s almost 2:00 a.m. I climb into bed, and although I
know I have to deal with my agent tomorrow, I let my mind settle on my redhead. Charlie. Her name makes me smile in the dark of my room. She makes me smile.

  Chapter 3

  My alarm sounds at six, like it does every morning. In my sleepy state last night, I must have reset the clock instead of turning it off. Saturday morning is no time for overthinking my past mistakes, or should I say, my now-typical blunders. I turn the alarm off and go back to sleep.

  By 7:00 a.m., the inevitable has happened—I can’t sleep any longer. I mosey into the kitchen, starting my coffeepot that holds my Ethiopian dark bean brew. It’s this month’s selection from the travel-the-world-coffee-of-the-month club my dad gave me last Christmas.

  I wander into my cozy living room past the bar separating the two rooms and see the funeral announcement still untouched. I sit on the couch waiting for the coffee to brew before dealing with reality. When it’s done, I fill my mug and add the perfect amount of cream and sugar to cut the acidic aftertaste. I don’t like this coffee, but I hate being wasteful even more, so I sip the hot liquid on the way out of the kitchen.

  Grabbing the white envelope, I settle into my chair by the window—my special book nook—and pull the cardstock out to read:

  You are respectfully invited to attend the funeral of

  James E. Bennett Jr.

  Saint Thomas Church

  New York, New York

  April 23rd

  3:30 p.m.

  The wording is plainer than I would have expected for Cherry Bennett. It’s very direct and to the point, not like Jim’s mother at all. She’s passive-aggressive and quite the show-woman. I think the announcement is tasteful, basic, and appropriate. She didn’t go overboard as she usually would. I think Jim would have approved, too. I run my finger slowly over his name, and my sweetest memory overcomes me. I try to stop the images, but they flood like a migraine, taking over.